The other things.
The door was shut
by the ironies of memory,
while inside: dust settled
after arduous travel- weary,
to rest-
and the wind slipped in
through a window, cracked,
by the ironies of memory,
and unwound in melodies
of blue, lonesome sound.
Maybe there was blood
on the floor, just there, last week-
that in being, was as well,
as in if it weren’t: for in
wherein there never existed
an eye by which to volunteer
an excercise so as to extract
an explanation on
existence exact-
what did it matter
whose words drummed
what rhythm on that door?
But the door
sealed- the inside from
the out; the room
from sight, and what remained
around;
So what window did you find, cracked,
or did I:
that we so surely know
blue to be
what the wind breathes
within the invisibility
inside.
Your body conditions itself with every experience. History repeats itself until learned from and your mind and body work in tandem to provide an ample medium for recording experiences and their lessons.
Every experience is a lesson. Your subconscious or reflexive mind stores away some aspect of any immediate situation and the many-fold circumstances that set you on the maze of winding lanes that left you there.
Its only about so much as keeping your mind open. Go for anything bathed in the assurance that your mind-body, your entire self -which is but a cassette of the entirety of your experience alive-, knows that, and exactly what you’re doing. Even if you don’t have a clue where you’re heading with it to begin with, understand that it will become more than obvious about halfway through- and that’ll be exactly when you’re done. Just because you aren’t thinking something out- to every twist of detail, with conscious effort- doesn’t mean your mind isn’t already doing that while you only actively focus on engaging in you part of the representative activity.
If you have your whole life planned out ahead of you, you will never surprise yourself. Beauty is wasted without appreciation; and appreciation is a hollow monument without excitement. Unless you’re excited by what you’ve created, creation loses its appeal to self-doubt and so-induced panic.
Instead take it step by step- literally. Think of life as a jigsaw puzzle path where you take a step by fitting a piece in, in front of you, one at a time. And while you’re on this piece, you see only the piece as if it stands alone suspended in an isolated darkness. Because this is all your conscious mind needs to pick up on to go ahead with flipping on all those cogs and sectors specific to that activity. The minute your focus is corrupted even by broadly relevant or consequentially connected factors, the intensity and purity of the focus trained toward said jigsaw-piece is scattered. So your body-mind (or reflexive mind) settles into a mould that channels its focus and thus draws your reciprocal techniques more ways than one. The flow of understanding, birthed from your subconscious imprint and analysis of various of all preceding events, is lost, leaving the mind-body disoriented by the multi-directional tug of considered activity. The draw of the ulterior motive is a stealthy, sly, and speedy undercurrent. You’re smack in the middle before you even realise you’ve been drawn in. Focusing blindly on the task at hand increasingly reduces the odds of slipping down that slope. It becomes almost as if meditating on the task to eliminate distraction and sculpt it into its best possible end. Distractions are always eliminated in droves. Pristine intention: unadultered by thought- is supreme.
Its like this- every time you pick up a guitar, its not about what you know you can do with it; its about what you didn’t know you could do with it. And you aren’t ever going to find that out if you don’t let go of the arrogance of knowledge- woven from the belief that assimilated information is a pedestal in measurement. This is false. Knowledge is neither strung nor worn in necklaces. Assimilated information is but a step; just another step in the perpetual clusterfuck of event, experience, and understanding. And it is this coming together that should be the desired peak in every minute division of existence. Knowledge is an instructional inventory of beats in existence’s flood of rhythm. Its an arsenal of little techniques and several sleights that can only be performed accurately in the carelessness brought on by precise confidence in interpreting the feel required to perform.
hey, no,
don’t give me that-
that shake of your head
that wave of your palm;
don’t you dare dismiss
the point- you brought
my attention
to. Don’t you fucking-
Hey- look here
no, stop your shit
and lift your chin:
you waste my time
with your breathing
with every breath
that is not my answer- quiet.
Listen- its easier
on the eyes. So, sit up,
think, and answer me.
I will plow you down motherfucker
I will plant you in the ground.
Step aside from yourself to see the true potential of your existence. Nudge yourself as but a piece in a game, toward every appreciable opportunity with some promise to become intriguing or educational.
Suddenly everything’s like meeting an old friend: everything belongs, no one’s a stranger, there’s nostalgia tacked to every moment- in kaleidoscopic pulses throbbing all around you. There’s a rhythm to everything, the ember-strand at the cherry’s base of a lit cigarette will run the circumference in jagged synchrony with the thump of every swirl of the dispersing smoke as it is eaten away by the wind. And then, just like that, it’s gone in as much a wave of fevers as a shook head or a shifted gaze.
There is a thick blanket drawn from eruptions of sensation- a membrane, the consistency of ice cream, it’s strands knit tight from some grander scheme; and it writhes, now, on the floor: convulsing, orgasming almost- as it throbs its brilliance to scatterance. Its in your eyes now, folds of it in your ears, and plastered in thin, absorbent film over the functioning of the mind- so that it may be felt, and yet, not understood.
A purple bottle-cap placed inverted at the mouth of a bong who’s green shone through as if it were something more than mere colour, and the dance they do in bending that light, has so much to say- in an exodus of strands that reach forever forward in covering everything and connecting even more; and you’re just there to listen.
Another scribble by the pen
and the scratches echo
over this surface.
It is separated.
A yawn somewhere
and another collapse
is equalized.
It is separated.
The dials turn on
some clock- inevitable
in sometime in the
rapid stagnation.
It is separated; but
occupied when seen
for in as the whole.
A speech is made for
the thought that is
penned down.
And it is separated.
And distantly the surprised
spark of inspiration
is initiated,
close to something else.
It is as well, as true to all-
it is too separated.
Be it anywhere
Be I?
Be it that see
I through
Seasoned eye; or
Be it that see
I- that slate
be cleaned, be
wiped, of all
slant and summary;
straight and
lie?
Be it be I
take lie– before
this question
be cleansed, be
strained- and dictated,
be constructed,
clarified- and essence
done strict?
Be it so I:
is It to be.
The crackle of spirit
wails through the hollow,
empty, un-shallow, upward
spiralling cavern-pit
that goes on forever, but
neither ends at its beginning,
begins at its end, ends at
its end, nor begins at either
end- but swallows, in
gulps considerable-
Swallows, and swallows again-
ingesting; thrust- defenestered
Piece robbed at inception
of that spark- Mastication
and is unwhole, but wholly so
tumbles on and tumbles down,
unsure now:
where the beginning ended
and when the end begins
before the gap,
past the core:
maybe it lands
on sandy shore
so cloudy; Heavenly.
Cigarettes and wine:
as the seats draw clear.
The curtains are red
and keep red so on.
Why destroy
nothing at all,
hold on still more
wait for what call
will assure the meaning
of anything defeated.
Swiveling smoke
off cauldron ancient-
surely imagined,
no, simply so.
Why mention what
mentioned now is
but breezed wrapper
idly to meander
softly on
to gutter-side residence.
The drums to the march-
the march drums- do beat;
the call to charge-on
calls on repeat;
broken down
on the same empty street
whose lights will flicker,
whose smoke will rise
and who’s wrappers’ end
is no real surprise.
It’s a long corridor, and it feels like I’ve been walking a while.
Well, sometimes walking, sometimes running. Either way, it never seemed like I had much say in the decision. I simply knew it had to be done; no particular understanding of accurate reasons- it had to be done and it was, and so it still is.
The path is narrow; the walls lined with doors- numbered and shut. There’s little space between each and the next. Some I have seen, some I have heard of, and to some I am but a passer-by. The doors, they tend to repeat: they come and they go, and then again, and then sometimes vanish without a trace. But cyclic mysteries pervade, and obscure chances are a thing. The doors decide independent- they have paths of their own: paths for themselves, and paths within themselves; discovery becomes but invention. Adventure has no say in that to become: though every signboard leads onto more- each path remains as unique as the other; and still a difference is cultivated. To have seen one is to know the other, and yet not to have seen it. Straight paths can only be straight, even when running in circles. Maybe this is true, but it is reasonable to keep in mind that to travel is to get around.
The path is narrow –my path is narrow- and I’m sure, somewhere it began with a door. But I have seen so many more, that this can mean only so much still. An increasing number go by, and I cannot care for every one that does. There is a clock every now and then, and it always reads the same. The seconds tick unhampered, but nothing happens, nothing shifts. The clocks always read the same, but this does not change anything.
I’m running now. I’m running now, I think, because I know there is no rest; because I have come to know rest is futile. When nothing else should matter -and not matter in an endless stream- what do intervals between insignificance really signify?
And Dissociation flutters perpetually beside me, having borne wings in some moment of nonchalance, only to devour opportunities of lowered guard to peck at me and instill a daze that leaves me questioning every strand of every alliance that keeps me rooted to what I believe I am rooted in. My mind is numbed, and then I realise it was numb all along, and only in understanding this numbness (and that by the anticipation of it), have I understood its absence- and I do not know what it is called.
My mind belonged to me all along, and I let it wander- wander aimlessly through endless, imagined corridors toward pointless turns and extensions of the same. And still it goes on; still I carry on. For rest is futile, and I must carry on. The daze has dulled, I believe, and I realise that I have realised it, but the pace requires that the pace not be hurdled, and I must carry on. These marble floors shall echo my lost footsteps yet, and more doors will remain shut and numbered; and I shall continue to search for what I am searching for. And maybe, once I have found it, I will have found what I seek to find.
I see faces and I see names
waiting for their claim to fame.
I see vultures scouring for prey,
hoping every dog has its day.
The kettle whistles
the clock won’t sleep
Its time to stumble
its time to sweat;
but the mirror giggles so elegantly
while they all just quietly weep.
Another moment is wasted,
a frozen picture pasted in time.
And these pictures they pile
in-between some ancient files
and I’m no more certain of mine.
The ashtray’s brimming
its had its fill,
with the ghosts of cigarettes
and windowsills.
As a cheerfully bright sun
smiles its way-
the currency of moments
could end with the day.
The father is busy
the child is cold,
But the loss of his mother
should have made him bold.
There’s so much to say,
says everyone else
they go out of their way
to make no sense.
But people are silly
and intelligence dead.
Maybe its time they all went to bed-
and never woke again.
And another moment is wasted
a thousand pictures pasted in time
and these pictures they pile
in-between some ancient files
and I’m no more certain of mine.
Jamberbane 